RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Wednesday, April 30

12-Pack Review: IWA-MS 06/15/02

BEER ONE: No guts, no blood, no glory – that’s the type of shit that makes sense to me. I got this tape at the post office today, and I’m very excited, as after it happened a few people emailed me saying I had to see it – it was the perfect Raven type of show. You see, I like the odd, ugly, realness of things. Laid back and wasted, yet able to keep all the responsibilities covered, much like school, coasting, getting just enough of a grade to succeed, not shooting for straight As, but generally regarded as an honor roll type of motherfucker, even though I don’t deny myself the adult parallels of getting high in the bathroom by the typing class on the back side of the Vo-Tech building. I love wrestling, but most of what I see now, I don’t love. That’s obvious. Everybody who’s ever stopped long enough near me talking about wrestling has heard me run it down; I can’t help it. It’s all soap opera bullshit, or supposedly great lightweights who’d be lucky to not be classified as a mini south of the border. Same ol’ shit, same ol’ shit. And it’s not like IWA is anything different, as it was one of the many ECW wannabe, hardcore clones that sprang from the ashes of a burning out Paul Heyman creativity in the late ‘90s, but Ian Rotten has persevered with IWA, and it has built itself into some weird hybrid of what I don’t know. When I watch an IWA show, I know, eventually, I’m gonna see something I like, whether it be in the ring, or some fresh-faced teenage hooker wearing a cut-off black t-shirt in the crowd. I can imagine the watering holes in Clarksville, Indiana, to be warm places, reverberating with the thump of Nappy Roots or Trick Daddy, yet mostly all white faces in the dim, sucking on Budweisers or Bud Lights or Smirnoff Ices, as that’s all they probably offer, the cross-breeding of black culture with lower level white culture in full bloom, being it’s fuckin’ beautiful fuck-you-light-that-blunt-bitch self. Now, I’m exposing myself as too wordy and shit. That’s the culture I sprang from, yet I sprang myself to college, and am still changing names and addresses and avoiding the Big Payback however possible. I bet not a one of you knows my real name; hell, most of my best friends don’t even know it. Word. I am too educated to be smoking blunts at the pool table in the back room of a bar anymore, yet too fuckin’ trashy to clean and polish up nice enough to ever make something of myself in this world, the making something being relative to income, which for some fucked up twisted reason is the accepted standard of making something of one’s self. And that’s the thing, too. I remember reading somewhere someone talking something about how Ian Rotten barely gets 200 people for his shows, yet he puts on these great shows time after time, with all these great guys. How does he do it? LOVE, MOTHERFUCKERS, LOVE! Take your goddamned dollar bills and stuff them up your fuckin’ brainwashed asses. Sure, it’s great to be able to pay the light bill on time doing something that you like to do without answering to some asshole who doesn’t care about you no way; but when you LOVE something, you’ll find a way. I hate motherfuckers who talk about funding for the arts being necessary, or how downloading the new Jurassic 5 undermines the artist as they won’t be able to do their art anymore. MOTHERFUCK THAT! You love something, you do it, period. I love putting bullshit intangible words together and always have and always will. What the fuck do you think I get for this? Let’s see, I got a bill for my web server the other day, but I hit everybody up for money a few months back, and used that money for said light bill instead. And a random email from time to time. But nothing really, other than the satisfaction that even though I spend at least ten hours of each day doing some dumb shit that if I could cut off one finger and never have to do for the rest of my life but still make a paycheck like I was doing it then yeah bye-bye finger, I can come home and scribble out some dumb shit. Okay, blah blah blah. I’m drinking Coors Light because we had a keg party this weekend and The Tara Monk came to visit, and she buys this shit and leaves it here when she goes home and the last three times I’ve drank Coors Light have been the last three times she’s visited. On to the tape, which is in loving memory of Old Man Charlie, and I don’t know who the fuck that is, but that’s one helluva name, so I’ll drink to him.

BEER TWO: Ian Rotten looks more and more like the type of honest crew foreman that we’d all love to work for. The great Ian is announcing that they will break their five-year lease to move three doors down and have air conditioning and heat, and the fat white crowd pops like a fight broke out on Springer back before it was stereotypical to have fights on Springer. Wrestling as religion has always been a theme in my head, with Ric Flair as Jesus figure throughout the south, and I guess the country, before the blasphemy of sports entertainment sabotaged souls into believing in false prophets like Triple H and all. And though those days are gone, moments seeing a guy like Ian talk to his crowd at the beginning like it’s a cookout and their saying grace before the food is picked apart, it gives me that feeling again. They’re not selling Old Man Charlie’s seat anymore, and a generic plastic chair has a piece of paper taped to it dedicated to him. God fuckin’ damn. And the crowd is a real crowd, who hates the hated and loves the loved, and Ian says Tojo Yamamoto better make room in Heaven, and Ian’s head is stitched together from the night before, I assume. It’s all so overwhelming, and exactly how I want wrestling to be. Brad Bradley comes out, with some chick, and he’s big and athletic and I’ve never seen him before. Mark Gotticker is his opponent, who looks young and goofy, and has terrible late ‘80s/early ‘90s Memphis heel tag team trunks, all bright colored and floral patterned. Bradley is from Steel Domain Wrestling school, they say, and that has to be good as most of the guys I saw on their tape I had never seen were good. Bradley is dishing the pain and Gotticker is taking it with floppy arms, this is a great opening match, doing what needs to be done.

BEER THREE: I gotta admit, I’m getting primed here. The Smart Mark, who by the way, fuckin’ rock. I haven’t bought shit from them, but all their shit is great, and lacks seven thousand copyright notices. But the announcers are talking about Necro Butcher vs. Pondo, and the return of Tracey Smothers, and mystery tag team partners, and I’m stoked. Gotticker gets a schoolboy victory over Bradley. Your ring announcer looks like a down’s syndrome disco machine. Some girl comes to the ring with the announcer or some shit, and she has one of those tattoos that’s low on her back, half exposed by her pleather pants or whatever, and I desire anal sex with her. Jayden Draigo is your first person in this next match, from Shawn Michaels school in Texas. He’s got a dope fucked-up look that I’d expect from a wrestler, with long braided hair, yet the sides and back shaved, and a sculpted ghetto Backstreet Boy beard. Draigo chants “you’re a fat fuck” to override the crowd chant. Adam Gooch is your crowd favorite, and he looks very normal in pants and an orange shirt. Adam Gooch is a redneck lucha fan, and I can’t complain about that one little bit. The crowd chants “Charlie” for the dead guy. You know, the true sign of a wrestling show being worthwhile is if there’s a crazy old guy you recognize from other shows at the thing; and they always find their way to the front row somehow. Again, that’s why sports entertainment sucks, because the crazy old guy doesn’t somehow get front row seats every show. It’s always some shitty college kids who got up early on Saturday morning to hit ticketmaster.com and get their fuckin’ tickets on the credit card they were supposed to use for emergencies only. Gooch hits a German suplex with a bridge and gets the pinfall. Ahh, wrestling as it’s meant to be, with shitty extra rooms built on with doors with no knobs being the dressing room, and some kid behind a table with a stereo on it as the music player. Desiree is the chick with the tattoo and she’s coming out with the ref each match, I think. “All That” Matt Murphy is out, and he is small and wearing really shiny trunks, and he was trained by Harley Race. Murphy’s opponent is Chris Hero, who is escorted by Nadia Nyce, who bignaturals worthy. They’ve got to be real because they bounce; and Hero is pasty and wearing a Superman shirt, and goddamn I feel like I’m at a party at my youngest sister’s trailer, legit no bullshit, and that’s a great thing.

BEER FOUR: When I watch the wrasslin’, it means a lot when the guys look like we could party. It’s always been that way. This explains why, as a kid, I was drawn to guys like Jimmy Valiant and Buzz Sawyer and Blackjack Mulligan – they looked like the types that would be in the backyard smoking joints and playing shoes with my dad and the gang. The same is still true. And when I look at a guy like Chris Hero, without even seeing him wrestle, and Ian Rotten too, in his current state, they look like the type of guys I’d be leaning against the back of a pick-up, splitting a twelve-pack down at Eugene’s, before he died, in Cumberland, talking shit about nothing at all. Some of the Dukers would show up, and Paul, who I first smoked weed away from home with, would ask what I was doing and how many kids I had. Smarty Marty would eventually pull up and ask about my mom. Percy would be there, barefoot, still unemployed and still the stoner he was when I met him and split bottles of stolen wine behind the Big Star sixteen years ago. Percy said he started smoking weed at age eight, and I can’t argue with him, because he’s burned out, but a good burned out. When I coached little league softball in high school, one of the girl’s on my team was Percy’s half-sister, and I’d have to take her home to the trailer and Percy would answer the door and that little girl had beautiful eyes that only came from reality. You can’t put a white trash sticker on your car and have eyes like that. Then again, so many of my white princesses have been pimped out by Springer stereotypes and early teen pregnancies and Big Tymer videos that they’ve lost those eyes, too. Matt Murphy asks the crowd to put out their cigarettes, as he’s a real athlete. What a great heel tactic. I like this Chris Hero; he’s not bad, and not afraid to put his moves right up on you. The commentators are talking about a Chris Hero drinking game from some dudes in England; man, this shit is right up my alley. All IWA needs is a big-tittied (natural, of course) valet with an Andy Capp tattoo on one of her tits. Or Snuffy Smith. Or both.

BEER FIVE: Chris Hero gets twisted in the ropes, and Murphy throws some shitty punches. Hero is not afraid to be stiff with the clotheslines. “Modified flipping DDT thing,” says the announcer, and I think he’s stealing lines from my reviews. Fuck knowing the name of everything. Double Hero’s Welcome, after dropping Nyce’s tits on Murphy, which didn’t move a lot, which challenges my real thought, but she still has a fat enough ass. Desiree is dope, and I know her tits are real, because they’re small. “Back in Black” as theme music! From here to forever, it means drink. 2 Tuff Tony, man, what a guy, giving the crowd pounds instead of hand slaps. IWA needs a glow-in-the-dark shirt like the Metallica metal-up-yer-ass shirt. Corporal Robinson, with a cig in mouth, his forehead puffed up from blading, at his age, well ahead of the pace that Perro Aguayo Sr. set as the high watermark. If Robinson can go for another twenty-five years, he’ll definitely have what looks like four knuckles trying to bust out his forehead at 55, god bless him. I feel like I should blade during every review, just so I’m not some bullshit internet dork.

BEER SIX: Robinson’s head busted open during a collar-and-elbow hold-up, and now he’s in the face of a fan, talking mad shit. The fan looks bonafide confused and pissed, and Robinson just sky-rocketed up the Raven Mack 500 list in my head. I remember reading a quote from Dusty or Wahoo or somebody saying they had so much scar tissue, sometimes if they had a violent sneeze, they could start bleeding. Why does Corporal Robinson want me to fake his ass? Fuck, fuck, fuck. Tony hit a brainbuster on a chair ringside on Robinson, and even with the awkward playing-it-safe angle the move took, it could never feel good, like sex with an ex-girlfriend who tried to stab you at her friend’s house that time. Robinson sets up an ironing board, and then 2 Tuff takes over, and I desire to see how they break this thing apart. Corporal Robinson gets rammed into the water heater, and that’s a first I’ve ever seen, at least at a wrestling match. The building is the cinderblock and sheet rock that a good indy show should be in post-corporate wrestling world. Holy fuck, 2 Tuff Tony is choking Robinson with his own arm, a move I used to make fun of the mixed martial arts faggots I used to work with, since they’d be rolling around on the floor in “guards”, which looked like homoerotic foreplay to me. Robinson and Tony do a quick two-count sequence with four two-counts, which is great, considering who these guys are. Tony has a dollar bill stapled to his head now; that never ceases to impress me. And now there’s one another bill stapled to his cheek; and I hope to fuckin’ god they’re using eighth inch staples. And in the type of rampant carelessness I love and respect, Robinson backtosses Tony into a stack of chairs leaning against the wall, folded, so that they all just tumble and he lands all awkward as shit.

BEER SEVEN: Tony still has two dollar bills stuck to his head, one on his cheek. 2 Tuff Tony is fuckin’ great; he just dropped Robinson on his fuckin’ skull on a thumbtack bat, then lays an extra door on two chairs, now understand, this is not like a piece of plywood, this is an extra door they found laying around, on two chairs, in perfect violent beauty, and pours thumbtacks all over it. Robinson gets layed on the door with tacks on chairs, and Tony comes with his corkscrew plancha into a three count, and into my heart. And the one dollar bill is still stuck to his skull, though the one on his cheek came off. And Tony, in a hardcore redneck honor twist, starts a “Corporal” chant into the house mic. People like this make me not hate America completely, because this country is full of people like this. Fuck the fags in suits and ties who talk their liberal or conservative bullshit and care about dumb shit like bombing places I can’t drive to or planning budgets. Budget? What the fuck is that? I pay my bills and if I have extra, I blow it. And of course, Tony has to cut an after-match promo outside with the dollar bill in his head. “LONGHAIRED COUNTRY BOY” AS THEME MUSIC! “LONGHAIRED COUNTRY BOY” AS THEME MUSIC! I, too, get stoned in the morning and drunk in the afternoon. And I don’t have a blue-tic hound, but my dog Waylon likes to lay around in the shade. And I, too, don’t have no money, but I damn sure got it made. One time, my hip hop group, no shit, hip hop, played this party, and these two big redneck dudes came in talking shit, one of which looked like a sloppy John Tenta, and they were talking shit, and I went to our DJ, because we had two vinyl copies of the Charlie Daniels Band record with “Longhaired Country Boy” on it, because he scratched the part about “a drunkard wants another drink of wine” for the hook of our song “Drankin’ Wine”, and he cued it up, DJ Nabby Swift was what he went by, and we spun that shit, and the redneck dudes and us and others, including my boy Boxhead, god bless his soul, wherever he is, all sang like drunks, and nobody fought and everybody was friends and this was ten years ago, and goddamn, just that song makes me happy because I grew up on it. The crowd is clapping because they understand the song. Tracey Smothers comes out with his old Confederate flag jacket on. Tracey Smothers the Southerner is twenty-nine times better than Tracey Smothers the Italian, which was pretty fuckin’ entertaining. Smothers’ opponent is Jamie Dundee, that’s right Jamie Dundee. I have to drink in anticipation of this meeting of the underground heroes.

BEER EIGHT: Smothers stretches out. By the way, for you bitches out there, me drinking during this shit is not a work. Usually, I prove it by saying continually stupider shit as the review goes on. I’m just saying, if you’re doubting, fuck you. Jamie Dundee is coming out to “This Is How We Do It” by Montell Jordan. That’s fuckin’ perfect in it’s own right. Beyond the match at hand, this is a battle of redneck culture. You’ve got, on one hand, the old school early thirties guy who loves some CDB and Skynyrd and ain’t afraid to tuck a black t-shirt into a pair of jeans and take his lady to the fair. On the other side is a mid-twenties kid, who grew up in the exact same environment, except for one very serious intangible – rap music. It changed everything, even for some fuckin’ hick kid in Tennessee. I am 29 years old, so this battle is very real to me, as it occurs daily on my turntable. Do I throw on Nightrider by Charlie Daniels Band or do I throw on the second Jedi Mind Tricks LP? Is my perfect Sunday morning record Redheaded Stranger by Willie or the instrumental version of Criminal Minded by BDP? David Allan Coe Rides Again or the Goodie Mob’s first record? It’s hard to say. Let’s let the wrestlers decide. The great thing is both these guys are somebody’s Crazy Uncle. Tracey Smothers is talking shit about smart marks, and calling people fat boy, telling people to meet him out back after the show’s over. This is the best heel promo I’ve heard in a few decades, as Tracey seems to be genuinely disgusted by the fans, which is what makes a heel a heel. And the greatest thing, Dundee takes the mic, and he looks like any shit-talking young redneck in any small-city, except he’s added elbowpads to his non-shirt wearing ensemble. They do the whole trading poses for the crowd, which of course, results in Smothers getting booed and Dundee getting cheered, at least in the scenario laid out by a shit-talking Smothers. Where else could Jamie Dundee get cheered? God Bless Ian Rotten. Smothers is talking mad shit, and some hot bitch with big tits grabs some weapon. Man, she’s got nice tits, and thumbtack whiffle ball bat. HAHAHA! Smothers rolls out the ring and talks shit with the same part of the crowd, then headbutts the metal pole. That chick is freaking out and yelling like chicks do at parties when they’re drunk and pissed off for no reason, and the dude sitting next to her man is doing the ol’ tongue in the cheek “you gave someone a blowjob” taunt. A “Dirty Sanchez” chant breaks out. Man, the only thing that would make Smothers talking this much shit better would be if Tommy Rich was ringside as his manager talking even more drunken shit.

BEER NINE: Finally, we have some wrestling, and Tracey Smothers rules. And you can tell Tracey is working the crowd, even in his drunken heel mode, as he tries to call time-out, but points his time-out call in the direction of all the people he’d been talking the most shit to. I wonder how many times Jamie Dundee and the Road Dogg were smoking joints together outside of big arenas in rental cars while employed by the Big Perv, Vince McMahon. I just went outside to piss off the porch (trademarked) and it was sprinkling, so I stood there with my dick out and my arms held out, feeling nature’s love; it was great. I pissed all over my leg, but it was great. Jamie Dundee hit a powerslam? Smothers, I think, is the greatest wrestler going. He puts his feet on the ropes and gets a three-count. Jamie Dundee reaches into the cooler on his way to the back. Now wait a second, I heard there was a riot with Tracey Smothers. Maybe I’m a little too hard, literally, on wrestling circles, but to me, a riot means a fuckin’ riot. Over the years, the fuckin’ pussies who love to over-analyze the professional wrasslin’, have overextended the meaning of riot. A riot should entail a wrestler actually engaged with “fans” in fisticuffs in order to get his paid-to-wrestle ass back to the dressing room. A riot should entail violence. Over the last few years, from the Terry Funk interference in that Sabu/Al Snow match in California where Funk ends up under a van, to the thing in TJ where El Dandy smashes somebody with a chair (not really, he swings a chair at them), wrestling riots are fuckin’ overrated. Calling something a wrestling riot is like calling it a pussy riot. A riot means people are pissed and breaking shit, not just sitting there, talking shit, pretending to be mad and doing the ol’ tongue in the cheek taunt. Fuck. I want a riot. I have never, NEVER NEVER NEVER once gotten a tape that was supposed to be a riot where it ended up in a riot. NEVER! NOT EVEN FROM PUERTO RICO! Man, fuck these watered-down riot standards. Next WWE pay-per-view they have in the Great State of North Carolina, we’re gonna have a riot. I’ll start taking donations now, as, if I can get the money together, the financial backing if you will, we’ll buy a fuckin’ shitload of seats, and we’ll have a genuine riot. A for-real tear gas riot, with bloody wrestlers fighting their way back to the dressing room where they don’t know if it’s safe or not, but they know the numbers are probably are in their favor. We’ll make it an Us vs. Them, and fuckin’ take over. Fuck these pussy “riots”! You know what’s a cooler word than “riot”? “Stabbed”. When you’ve been “stabbed”, you know how to “riot”. None of this pussy bullshit of some bitch with fat tits waving around some whiffle ball bat. Goddamn, no wonder the terrorists hate us. But God Bless Tracey Smothers. He did his best to start a riot; he should’ve just punched somebody to put it over the top. Okay, next match, Dysfunction is the Mid-American champion, which harkens back to the Memphis title of the same name, and he’s putting the title on the line against Ian Rotten, who’s put his fan’s hair on the line, a chick named Phyllis. “He’s lost over 80 pounds in a year,” says the announcer, and I’m here to tell you, I’d be the first investor in some stock (you mean like car racing?) if it involved the Ian Rotten Fat Loss Program. Okay, Rotten is fuckin’ up Dysfunction regularly, but he hits a powerbomb on the concrete, and that was extra sick.

BEER TEN: Ian is cold fuckin’ up Dysfunction. Ian hits a spinning toehold in a baggy acid-washed jeans. Then bust the Figure Four. The announcers are selling how Dysfunction is a tool for his promoter in Wisconsin, and how he got here tonight late and didn’t get to stretch, and this is supposed to explain Ian kicking his ass without any fighting back. Yet, by Dysfunction not losing yet, even if Ian picks his head up, it makes the kid who’s bloody and fucked look tough. They have talked about the ref needing to call the match a couple of times. Ian cuts a promo that makes me afraid of him and makes him shoot to the to 5 in the Raven Mack 500 in the head of mine thang. Rain, a chick, comes out, and dudes in the crowd are holding out dollar bills, and Rain snatches them and puts them next to her titties in her tank top like anything in pop culture does with money in the last 20 years. Lacey comes out as the opponent, and she’s got a nice bulbous ass, though she’s also got fake tits it looks like. Why can’t bitches have a fat ass and real tits that are big?

BEER ELEVEN: I think I’d rather fuck Rain more, she’s more natural looking, and I dig the silver pants highlighting her ass curves. Although Lacey has some jiggle when she flops on the mat. You know, I read some shit on my site tonight, on the message board, and I can tell you, I masturbate more than anybody, usually a couple times a day, and never in my life have I thought it a good idea to masturbate to a story of my boy fucking some chick. Never. Really, never. I can imagine myself having a ménage-a-trois with an alien and a donkey and get off, but not pretending to watch a friend have sex. Fuck that shit. One of the chicks won the match, and I wasn’t watching. I want to get Desiree pregnant. Tarek the Great is probably the scariest person I’ve seen in some time. I thought this guy was partners with Shark Boy. Goddamn, he’s freaky looking, like a gay biker Hare Krishna. “Sexy” Ace Steele is even more disturbing, as he’s Jeff Spicoli’s younger brother, the kung fu heel looking type from Thrashin’ 2: the Eclectic Jiggaboo. Man, I hate Ace Steele, just because he did the Jeff Jarrett relaxing on the top rope thing during the intros. Tarek is my pencil-selling man. Although, he’s also my Merle Allin’s best friend type, as well. He could be the seventeenth drummer for the Murder Junkies. Somebody won while I wasn’t paying attention. Mark Wolf comes out with that stick slut Francine as his sidekick, and damn, she’s as ugly as ever, with silicone on a bone framework, so fuck it, but not literally.

BEER TWELVE: Mark Wolf’s secret partner is Bobby Eaton, yes, Bobby Eaton, in a warehouse in Indiana. That is wrestling, folks. I have seen Eaton more than once, from the large confines of a packed house at the Richmond Coliseum to the bare necessities of the Buckingham, Virginia, County High School football field. Mean Mitch Page & Rollin’ Hard are your tag team champs and the opposition. Rollin’ Hard fuckin’ rules as well, coming out like New Jack in Smoky Mountain, betraying his race and not fuckin’ around. Holy shit, Mean Mitch Page is billed as from Salt Lick, Kentucky; I remember going through there and thinking what a fucked up town name that was. The great thing about Mitch Page is he looks like Ian from a year and a half ago. Well, Tracey Smothers shows up and starts beating down Eaton, and it goes haywire from there, and I apologizie for my pussies-talkin’-riot thing before, though most of you are still pussies, and not the good kind worth licking. But watching Smothers punch and flip all sorts of folks, worker and non-worker alike, after that same bitch with the nice tits clocked him during a melee, it renewed my faith in wrestling to be unnecessarily unpredictable. John Cena pinning Chris Jericho is not unpredictable; it’s called building a new product. Fans getting punches in the fuckin’ face is unpredictable, and I’m willing to live with that and I’m willing to live by the same sword that might cut my head off. Bobby Eaton yelling “goddammit” and saying Smothers doesn’t scare him; man, I think this is the best wrestling show I’ve ever reviewed. It has turned to utter chaos. “Smoke a joint or something, chill,” says Ian to Tracey, and I love the wrasslin’ again. I love it. Hey! The ring is completely surrounded in light tubes and there’s more tubes outside the ring, and out comes Mad Man Pondo, stomping through what’s left of the audience after Tracey Smothers’ episode there just now. Necro Butcher comes out next, and you know why he’s limping? It’s because his knee is all fucked-up, already, all for your enjoyment. And you sit there and complain. Man, fuck you. And looking at the tubes taped to the ring ropes, half of them are burned out, which is great, because that means that Ian gets them for free from places so he can let fuckers batter themselves for others’ amusement. “And somewhere in Heaven, Charlie’s going ‘Move the fuck out of my way, and where’s the tits?’” That’s what Mr. Announcer said. What kills me is Pondo looks retarded, he has to do this to get blowjobs from young girls; but Necro Butcher seems young, maybe balding, he could talk shit to some young bitches and get his fair share of pussy. Yet here he is, back all fucked up, Pondo smashing more glass shards into his skin, and I’m not even thinking about the tube dust that’s carcinogenic or whatever. But God Bless them Both.

BEER THIRTEEN: The ring is glass shards and they’re still going, with Pondo putting shit all over Necro Butcher. This is the most fucked up goriest match I’ve ever seen. Necro’s arms are bleeding; Pondo’s back is a crimson back patch. Holy fuck, the camera gets a close-up of Necro finally getting out of the galvanized garbage can, AND THE INSIDE OF THE FUCKIN’ CAN IS RED WITH BLOOD! Pondo is building some shit with like fifty light tubes and two ladders and Necro Butcher is still kind of laying there. This is so fuckin’ sick. A superplex through all that they set up. Parts of Necro’s arm is hanging out after that move, and Ian rushes the ring as Pondo does the phone on the face ting, and some voice in the crowd yells, “Ian, what’s the address?” They pour water on Necro’s arm, and good fuckin’ god, can you imagine showing up at the hospital with black jeans on and covered in blood and trying to explain how what happened to you happened to you? I only drank one-third of that one, but goddamn.

EPILOGUE: First Star of the Tape – who else? The Necro Butcher, for letting his arm get severed for my enjoyment. Yo bitch, if you read this, you are one crazy fucker, but I bet I can outdrink you. Second Star of the Tape – Tracey Smothers; for causing fights with the crowd and creating mayhem. Third Star of the Tape, and First Star of the Promotion – Ian Rotten; for doing what you’ve been doing and doing it well. I’m not sure what type of God I believe in, as I’m only 29 and pretty fuckin’ cynical, but whatever God I believe in, I’m confident he’d approve of what you’re doing.

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